Drought

Try to remember: things go wrong in spite of it all.

I listen to our daughters singing in the crackling rows

of corn and wonder why I don't love them more.

They move like dark birds, small mouths open

to the sky and hungry. All afternoon I listen

to the highway and watch clouds push down over the hills.

I remember your legs, heavy with sleep, lying across mine.

I remember when the world was transparent, trembling, all

shattering light. I had to grit my teeth against its brilliance.

It was nothing like this stillness that makes it difficult

to lift my eyes. When I finally do, I see you

carrying the girls over the sharp stones of the creek bed.

When they pull at my clothes and lean against my arms,

I don't know what to do and do nothing.